The last impact echoed through the room like a closing door.
It was different this time.
When Armin settled back into his seat after the final slam, there was no twitch beneath him. No shifting, no breath, no struggling pulse to press against the fabric of his uniform. Just stillness.
A stillness he recognized.
He remained there for a moment, unmoving. His eyes stared at nothing, his face blank—not in grief or doubt, but in thought, as if letting the silence confirm what he already knew.
Then slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself upward with his arms, rising from the chair with the calm of a man finishing the final page of a long-awaited book.
He tilted his body slightly to the side, one hand braced on the desk, and looked down curious, fascinated, quietly thrilled.
There she was.
Or what was left of her.
Annie Leonhart was now a crumpled, broken thing. Bent in ways the human body was never meant to bend, her figure was grotesquely framed by the deep imprint left in the wooden chair beneath her. Her eyes, once icy and guarded, stared blankly into nothing, empty of life or resistance.
Armin giggled softly. A light, boyish sound. It echoed eerily in the silent room.
“Thanks, Annie!” he said, kneeling slightly to examine her more closely. His voice was tender, disturbingly so, like a teacher praising a student who had done her best.
He stood up straight, smoothing his clothes as if nothing had happened.
His gaze drifted toward the door, thoughts already turning, calculating.
“This confirms it,” he whispered to himself, smiling. “Now I know it should definitely work on Mikasa…”
Excitement rippled through his chest. His smile widened.
“I can’t wait!.”
With that, Armin Arlert stepped out of the room, leaving behind the silent ruin of his latest test subject—his steps light, measured, as the door clicked shut behind him.
